I have no wish to be on hand when the last greyhound crosses the finish line.

Most newspaper obituaries have focused on major events in the history of the track-big races and great champions, or, at the other end of the spectrum, the sad stories of individuals who will lose their jobs as the result of the closing.

The memories I’ll carry with me are the sights, sounds and smells of a night at the track in its heyday.

With major casinos now just a couple of hours away, it’s hard to believe how exotic a trip to the track was for guys in their teens and early twenties in the mid 1980’s.

Heading up Rt. 138 from Easton to Raynham, the traffic would be backed up for a mile as you waited to join the sea of cars in the vast parking lot.

Feeling like a big shot, having my 1975 Oldsmobile Delta 88 valet parked right along with the Caddies and Lincolns of the big spenders.

Plocking 50 cents in the turnstile, paying $2 for a program and 50 cents more for a pencil and being down $3.00 before we even bet on a race.

Being overwhelmed by the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that hung in the air like London fog.

Grabbing a beer and then racing upstairs to get a seat in the balcony.

Opening the program to study the dogs running in the first two races in preparation for our “Daily Double” bets.

Waiting until the last minute to place our $2 bets in the paramutual line, adrenaline pumping, afraid that we wouldn’t get our money down in time.

If it was warm, running outside to join the crush of the crowd by the rail (this was before every seat had a closed circuit TV) to watch our dogs close-up.

The feeling of mild excitement knowing I was 30 cents richer when my favorite to show would come in the money.

The feeling of absolute depression when my $2 favorite to show finished with a view of the field.

Getting up to leave after the last race, the floor littered with losing betting slips.

Watching old timers pick up those losers off the floor, hoping to strike gold with a winner that somebody else missed.

Making a reservation to watch the races from the swanky “Jockey Club”.

Feeling like Ray Liotta in the restaurant scene in “Goodfellas” as you were escorted to your table marked “Reserved”.

I rarely left the track with more money than I came with, but my one big win came at the right time- $350 on a “Tri-fecta” the night before we headed to Ft. Lauderdale for spring break in 1985.

Stopping at the famous “Clipper Lounge” at the Diplomat in Easton for a post race drink.

The year-long wake is almost over.

To be honest, it’s been over for a long time

I’ll remember the nights when a bunch of goodfellas from Easton would put it all on the line, $2 dollars at time.

Raynham Call

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